If You Give a Vulcan a Vodka
by simpleDMD
Summary: Spock is acting a little squirrelly, but he won't say why. Good thing Bones has just the right medicine to loosen his tongue. . . . Rated T for salty language and heavy drinking. Not slash. R&R!
1. Afternoon

**Summary**: Spock is acting a little squirrelly, but he won't say why. Good thing Bones has just the right medicine to loosen his tongue. . . . Rated T for salty language and heavy drinking. Not slash.

**A/N**: Hey, people! Not only is this my first Star Trek fic, it's also my first fic written about people *not* from England. AT LONG LAST, I can finally be sure I'm getting the speech pattern right for at least one of my characters. Southern accent ftw!

Also, let me just say this: I figure that since Star Trek borrows pretty reliably from naval terminology, I'm allowed to give Bones a mouth worthy of a sailor. A relatively well-mannered sailor, all things considered, but still. You've been warned.

* * *

**If You Give a Vulcan a Vodka**

A Drinking Tale

* * *

AFTERNOON

He waited just long enough for the sickbay door to hiss shut behind him. Then he slammed his fist into wall.

"Is something wrong, Dr. McCoy?"

McCoy jumped as he realized Nurse Chapel was crouched in front of the supply cabinet beside him. He'd forgotten that he had asked her to catalogue any items that needed to be restocked. That was before he'd left sickbay. Now he was back, and he had a mother of a migraine for a souvenir. Sighing, he gave her a half-humorous look. "Christine, that Vulcan is a certifiable pain in the ass, however much you may beg to differ."

She eyed him reprovingly as she straightened up. "I've never denied that he's stubborn. You're stubborn, too, but I don't go around punching walls when you won't let me reorganize the supply cabinets."

Yeah, he deserved that one. Months back, she had proposed a more streamlined organizational system that would make her life a whole lot easier. Probably his, too. But the doctor had refused. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, he had told her. And so, the cabinets remained in their state of ordered chaos, to Christine's intense and explicit annoyance.

"Anyway," she went on, softening, "your day just got better. I'm on call now."

"But I still have an hour left," he said, checking his watch.

"I'm feeling unusually generous. So generous, in fact, that I will choose to disregard your insinuations regarding my personal life. Now scram before I change my mind."

McCoy grinned. "You know, Christine, questionable romantic tastes aside, you can be a real angel."

"And you can be a real bastard," she countered, whacking him playfully on the head with her clipboard as he retreated to his office.

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

McCoy collapsed at his desk and sighed. He honestly could not understand what so infatuated his head nurse with the first officer. The man was so stubborn it was unbelievable. Sometimes it tickled him, but today he was frustrated to the point of seeing red. While he preferred not to implicate Kirk, who was still troubled over last week's disastrous run-in with a trigger-happy Andorian defector, he might not have a choice. This was, after all, the _fourth_ fruitless battle of wills he'd had with the Vulcan this week. Getting Spock into sickbay for a regular physical was a feat in itself, but when it came to a psychological exam. . .

Hell, he might have to resort to tranquilizers.

Damned Vulcans.

Shaking his head, McCoy looked for something with which to distract himself. He needed to recharge. Picking through the clutter, his eyes fell on the medical journal that he had been itching to read for weeks now, but which he had forgotten about in the stress of dealing with Spock's strange (that is, stranger than usual) behavior. It was exactly what he needed.

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

Twenty minutes later, the doctor was utterly absorbed in the most intriguing paper he'd read in months, all other thoughts driven from his mind. Its subject: the inhibition of BCR-ABL tyrosine kinase activity by a 2-phenylaminopyrimidine derivative in patients with chronic myelogenous leukemia. One pill a day, and the symptoms were virtually gone in weeks.

"Fascinating," he muttered, just as the door to his office slid open.

"Bones. . . did you just say what I think you said?"

McCoy looked up and scowled as Captain Kirk strolled across the room and flopped into the chair across from him. "I don't know what you're talkin' about," he grumbled, tossing the journal onto his desk.

Kirk smirked, then picked up the journal. "You read this stuff for fun?" he asked dubiously, flipping through it upside down.

McCoy snatched the journal back. "Actually, I was just reading the most amazing thing. They got this drug out for CML patients now that makes it like they don't even have cancer, as long as they keep taking it. No chemo, no nothing, and hardly any side effects. It's not a cure, but I'll be a son of a bitch if it ain't—" He stopped gushing abruptly as he realized his friend was not sharing his enthusiasm. In fact, the captain was staring distractedly into middle-distance with a telltale frown that could mean only one thing.

Something was up.

McCoy sighed, then comforted himself that when it came to cancer drugs, Christine would make a better conversation partner, anyway. He rose to his feet.

"Say, Jim, how 'bout a cold one?"

Kirk snapped out of his reverie and gave the doctor a wry grin. "I was hoping you might have something a little stronger."

McCoy snorted. "How strong are we talkin'? I got everything from hard cider to Romulan Ale.

Kirk pondered a minute. "What was that stuff we drank last week?"

This time, McCoy laughed outright. "Trust me, you don't want to know. And I'm out of it, anyway – it was a small batch."

"A small batch?" Kirk repeated incredulously. "Bones, are you making _moonshine_ on my ship?"

McCoy grinned. "That's a serious accusation, Captain."

Kirk rolled his eyes. "Just give me a whiskey."

**.o0o.o0o.o0o.**

Half an hour had passed, they were each on to their second whiskey, and conversation was still casual. Not to mention meager. Whatever Kirk had on his mind, he wasn't anxious to spit it out. Fidgeting, McCoy glanced longingly at the medical journal and weighed his options.

There was always the danger that prompting the captain before he was ready would cause him to clam up, resulting in three or four more days of sitting on go, waiting for him to finally get whatever it was off his chest. This potentially meant spending the next four days as an on-call bartender in his free time, when he'd been planning on using that time to perfect the distillation technique he was developing. Scotty would be pissed, and Christine would be unbearably smug.

McCoy frowned.

On the other hand, he was aching to finish reading the leukemia paper. So far, it sounded like a breakthrough of miraculous proportions, and he was anxious to study the details of the research. You don't come across a paper like that every day. Hell, not even every decade.

He fidgeted some more.

It wasn't that he didn't want to help his buddy out. Far from it. But the man was moving as slow as Christmas. And there on the desk lay the journal, silently calling to him. The thing was practically batting its eyelashes.

_The hell with it_, he decided at last. _The still can wait_. "There something you want to talk about, Jim?" he asked as nonchalantly as he could.

Kirk looked up from his drink and regarded the doctor. He opened his mouth several times before finally speaking. "Something's wrong with Spock."

McCoy froze. Though deeply relieved that Kirk had indeed opened up, he was so sick and tired of thinking about Spock that he wanted to jump up and throw his chair at the wall. Mastering that impulse with a show of self-control that would impress even the Vulcan himself, he merely chuckled casually and said, "I been sayin' something's wrong with that man for a lo-o-ong time."

Kirk gave him a reproving glance. "I mean it, Bones. He seems. . . distracted. Almost restless. It's just the slightest bit, and if it were anyone else, I wouldn't think twice about it. But a restless Spock is like. . . ." he faltered, searching for an adequate simile.

"An American Chekov?" McCoy offered.

"Precisely."

For his part, McCoy thought Spock's recent squirrelliness was pretty self-evident, but all that mattered now was to keep the captain talking. So he hummed thoughtfully. "Now, if you had come in here a month ago and tried to tell me that the ever-dutiful Mr. Spock allowed his mind to wander like a normal human being, I'd have your head examined. But I've noticed, too. He hasn't been much fun to hang around, lately."

"_Fun_, Bones? I've heard you call Spock a lot of things, but never _fun_."

"Aw, come on, Jim, you know what I mean. Gettin' a rise outta that pointed-eared computer is the most entertaining thing to do on this ship. But when the person you're pickin' at is too preoccupied to notice the pickin', there ain't much point. We gotta fix Spock."

The captain eyed him wryly. "For recreational purposes only, of course."

McCoy grinned. "Damn straight."

Kirk shook his head. "Any ideas what's the matter with him?"

"Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd say he's depressed."

"Spock? Depressed?"

"Closest thing I can figure. Nothing major, but he's got as many symptoms as a Vulcan'll show you—decreased concentration, restlessness, reduced appetite—but otherwise physically healthy." Or as close to physically healthy as McCoy could guess. Damned Vulcans and their screwy physiology. If he could just get Spock into sickbay once in a while, he could run some tests and maybe understand that screwy physiology a little better. Might come in handy next time he beamed up from some godforsaken planet bleeding like a stuck pig, like that time someone shot him with a musket or who the hell knew what. But _no-o-o_. That headstrong, ornery old—

"So, what is he depressed about?" inquired Kirk, interrupting his train of thought.

McCoy rolled his eyes. "The hell if I know." Then he threw back the last of his whiskey and grinned because, as crazy as Spock was driving him, he was vindicated on one count. "Unemotional, my ass," he chuckled.

Kirk looked appalled. "Bones, this is sick! You've suspected this all along and you just let him suffer because depression is an emotional experience? Get the poor man in here and cure him!"

As if he didn't want to! McCoy brought his fist down hard on the desktop. "Dammit, Jim, give me some credit. I've been trying to get him into sickbay for the past two weeks now, but I'm a doctor, not the Almighty. Damn it to hell, it would take nothing short of divine intervention to get that pertinacious, mule-headed, stubborn-ass S.O.B. to listen to me!"

As he was speaking, the office door slid open. In walked Mr. Spock.

McCoy's jaw dropped.

"Forgive me for interrupting, Doctor," the Vulcan said coolly. "Though I would have to consult the computer banks as to the meaning of the acronym 'S.O.B.,' I believe that, given your tone, I can safely assume it refers to me."

Kirk coughed to disguise a laugh as McCoy spluttered, dumbfounded. "What are you doing in sickbay?" the doctor managed at last.

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "If you do not wish me here, you need only—"

"No!" McCoy almost shouted with desperation. "Please—I mean, _by all means_, come right in. You just sit right here next to Jim, and I'll fix you a drink. We were just chatting about this and that, nothing in particular. Nothing in particular at all. Now, come in and take a load off! No need to stand there in the doorway like a stranger; we're all friends here! It's not like I'm going to tranquilize you and strap you to a biobed or anything—what kind of doctor do you think I am!" He laughed nervously. "Nope, we were just passin' the time. Here, why don't I fix you a drink and you sit right—"

The doctor would have continued this frantic endeavor to coax Spock farther into the room, but the first officer was ignoring him. "Captain," he interrupted, "I have an urgent matter to discuss regarding the projected energy output calculated for our present course."

"Spock, we discussed that a few hours ago."

"Yes, but. . ." Spock looked momentarily confused as to what development had necessitated further discussion. Kirk and McCoy exchanged glances, and the doctor rejoiced that this might be his golden ticket to strap the Vulcan to a biobed after all and figure out what the hell was the matter with him. But at the last minute, Spock remembered.

"Yes, but Mr. Scott has discovered impurities in one of the dilithium crystals, which skewed my previous calculations."

Kirk glanced at McCoy, whose shoulders slumped in despair, and smiled minutely. He set down his whiskey and got to his feet. "Alas, my good doctor, duty calls. After you, Mr. Spock." He gestured to the door.

"But, Jim. . . ."

Kirk winked discreetly as he passed the crestfallen doctor and muttered, "Just wait, Bones. I may not be the Almighty, but I _am_ the captain."


	2. Evening

**If You Give a Vulcan a Vodka**

A Drinking Tale

* * *

EVENING

Half an hour later, McCoy was sitting alone in his office, gazing blankly at the leukemia paper, which suddenly seemed to be comprised entirely of 70-letter words. He was nowhere near drunk, as he'd only had two whiskeys; his brain merely wasn't as clear as it had been an hour ago. Consequently, the hiss of the opening door came as a welcome interruption. Looking up from the medical journal, he saw the recalcitrant Vulcan standing on the threshold.

Glaring.

McCoy sat back in his chair and smiled broadly. "Well, I'll be damned."

"As you can undoubtedly guess, Doctor, I am here only on the captain's orders. However, I am unusually busy, so it would be most expedient simply to note my arrival in your log and allow me to return to my work."

McCoy cocked his head to one side and considered how he might win this battle, as he knew for a fact that Spock was off-duty. Suddenly, he saw something glinting from the corner of his eye: the empty whiskey tumblers. Of course!_ And I know just the thing to get him talking, _he thought. Forcing himself to maintain a straight face, McCoy said casually, "All right, Spock. I'll let you go just as soon as you take this medicine I've got for you."

Clearly surprised that he was being allowed to escape this easily, Spock's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. But he said only, "I was unaware I required medication."

"I'm the doctor here, Mr. Spock, and if I say you need it, then you do," said McCoy, rising to retrieve the concoction he had in mind. He opened the cabinet across from his desk and rummaged inside.

"Doctor, that is a liquor cabinet, not a medicine cabinet."

"Nonsense," he cried, finding the bottle he was looking for and taking it to the counter behind his desk. "This cabinet just happens to have more bottles of alcohol than of medicine. Use that logic, Spock—why would I keep a liquor cabinet? If I did, I wouldn't be able to say the real hard stuff was for medicinal purposes only, and they'd write me up a violation quicker'n shit through a goose."

The first officer quirked an eyebrow. "Not only is that comparison vulgar, but it is also inaccurate. An Illegal Substances Officer could write violation reports at a maximum rate of 7.3 reports per hour, whereas a goose defecates at a rate of—"

"Shut up and let me concentrate," he groaned as he mixed Spock a drink. "I don't even want to know why you know that."

"Acknowledged."

"There," said McCoy as he finished. "Now, drink." He shoved the tumbler into Spock's hands and suppressed a grin. Half sweet tea vodka, half water, on the rocks. The Vulcan wouldn't know what hit him, and he'd be talking in no time.

Spock eyed the contents of the tumbler suspiciously. "It seems illogical both that a medicine should require ice and that such a small volume should require so much. What is the composition of this liquid? "

"Just drink it, Spock. The ice is there to help it go down better. Don't you trust me?" When Spock merely raised an eyebrow, McCoy threw up his hands. "Sit down and take the doggone medicine, ya pointed-eared pansy. Much as I might wish it would, it's _not_ gonna kill you."

At last Spock complied and attempted to knock back the entire glassful in one gulp. He immediately spit the contents on the floor.

"Easy there! You gotta take this nice and slow. It ain't Pepto-Bismol."

Spock stood gasping a little for air. "It's _sweet_."

"Oh, come on now, Spock, it's not _that_ sweet. I swear, you'd never survive in Georgia." He took the empty tumbler and mixed him another half-and-half. "Now, you just sip on this a while, and I'll clean this mess up. Relax. Enjoy it."

Spock scowled as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, but he nonetheless accepted the glass and sat docilely on the edge of McCoy's desk. He watched meditatively as the doctor mopped up the floor.

After a while, he commented, "The taste is not altogether bad. Though almost unbearably sweet, I detect a faint, lingering sharpness that I find quite pleasant."

McCoy chuckled and straightened up. "Good, 'cause you've got three more doses coming."

"Doctor, I—"

"Hush up, Spock," he interrupted, taking the now-empty tumbler and mixing him another. "This'll be a waste of time if you don't take the complete course. Kinda like antibiotics. Now, drink. _Slowly_." He leaned against the counter as Spock started on the second glass.

"As my taste buds have acclimatized to the shockingly high sweetness, the taste has become more amenable," Spock observed. "What is the composition of this medicine?"

McCoy smirked. "Well, I couldn't tell you exactly, but essentially it's a distilled solution of sucrose and ethanol infused with _Camellia sinensis_ leaves, diluted with equal parts water."

"I see. Sucrose would explain the sweetness."

McCoy nodded.

Then Spock blinked. "Ethanol?" he asked belatedly.

"For medicinal purposes only, of course."

"Are you attempting to inebriate me, Doctor?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Spock. I have principles."

Expecting a snide reply to the contrary, McCoy was surprised when Spock apparently forgot what they were talking about and remarked on 'the aesthetically pleasing amber glow radiating from the liquid.' _Well, that was quick,_ he thought. _Here goes nothing._

"So, Mr. Spock," he began conversationally, "how's life on the _Enterprise_ been treatin' you these days?"

Spock stared at him. "Do you hear a faint buzzing noise?"

McCoy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "That's just the medicine kicking in. Now tell me, is there anything that's been bothering you lately?"

"As I operate purely on logic, I do not allow things to 'bother' me." He paused. "I believe I am ready for my third dose, Doctor."

He looked and saw that Spock had indeed downed his second glass of sweet tea vodka. McCoy knew the stuff went down smooth, but Spock was going too fast, especially for someone who hardly ever drank. "Nope, the third dose goes to me. You get a glass of water.

Spock accepted the water without question and watched as McCoy mixed himself a drink. "The thing I do not allow to bother me most about this ship is that it is perpetually chilly. And too humid."

McCoy glanced up in surprise. Spock had wandered over to the wall and was examining the framed diplomas that hung there. "Oh?" he said. "Funny, I think it's too dry."

"Hence your heavy drinking."

McCoy almost choked. _Did Spock just make a joke?_

Spock continued, "You, Doctor, come from an area whose humidity is frequently upwards of eighty-five percent, which I still find difficult to believe is not lethal. My home, on the other hand, rarely reaches thirty percent humidity."

"Makes my throat dry just thinking about it," McCoy replied. He sipped his vodka and smacked his lips. _I'm damned if that ain't fine._

"To the contrary, the Vulcan climate is quite agreeable. One is always refreshingly warm and dry. On this ship, however, one feels cold and clammy, such that it is impossible to feel completely warm." He paused. "May I have the fourth dose, yet?"

McCoy smirked. Apparently, he wasn't the only fan of sweet tea vodka. "Not just this minute. I haven't finished our third one yet.

Spock huffed minutely, then continued, "Another thing I do not allow to bother me is the shockingly limited variety of foods. On Vulcan, one could consume a different plant-based dish every day for 1.27 solar years and never eat the same meal twice. You omnivorous humans, who vary your diet through differential preparation of meats, are dismally lacking in this regard."

With an almost audible snap, the pieces to the puzzle suddenly fit together as the doctor realized why Spock might be talking so much about Vulcan. "Why, Mr. Spock, I believe you are homesick!"

"Please, Doctor. Homesickness is an illogical, emotional desire for the conditions of one's youth, not because they are superior, but because they are familiar. I am merely comparing the relative merits of living on the planet Vulcan and of living on a starship."

"It's okay to miss home, Spock," he said gruffly. "I do it all the time." And then he realized he would need to change tactics: if Spock just had a little case of the weepies, he'd only need to get tipsy; but if he was suffering from full-on homesickness, he would need to get hammered. As an uprooted homebody, McCoy knew this fact quite well. So he handed Spock his third drink and made another for himself, supposing that if he was going to let the Vulcan get drunk off his favorite liquor, he may as well join him.

"If in saying this you mean to comfort me in some way—"

"Look, Spock, were just gonna drink, alright? This stuff is made for homesickness anyway. Sweet enough to remind you of home, strong enough to make you forget."

"The flavor does not remind me of home, Doctor."

"Shut up, Spock."

"It is, however, reminiscent of the comforts associated with—"

"Spock."

"Doctor?"

"Drink."

They sat in silence for a while, each wrapped up in his own thoughts. McCoy, for his part, had begun asking himself whether it was really a good idea to get the ship's first officer wasted, considering it would probably piss the captain off royally. He admitted that the idea probably wouldn't look so attractive if he hadn't already had two whiskeys and one—two?—sweet tea vodkas. But, hell, it looked attractive now, and the results were practically guaranteed.

_Who gives a shit if Jim doesn't agree with my methods? He's a big boy – he can get over it. Rub some dirt on it._

McCoy was exploring the novel idea of collecting dirt samples on his next shore leave, which he could then distribute to the snot-nosed midshipmen who regularly shuffled into sickbay, when Spock began to chuckle.

Scratch that. The man was _giggling_.

McCoy stared. "What's funny?"

Spock giggled some more. "Nothing's funny."

"Then what are you laughing at?"

"This glass emptied surprisingly quickly."

McCoy snorted, unsure if that was an answer or an unrelated comment. "If by that you mean that _you_ emptied the glass surprisingly quickly, then yes, I would agree." He took the last sip of his own. "Mine ran out awfully fast, too."

He took the tumblers and rose to refill them, then realized the vodka bottle wasn't but half-full.

He stared at it for a long time. "Shit, Spock, let's just kill it."

"Your tone indicates that this killing would be gratuitous, and as a Vulcan, I find such to be barbaric and abhorrent. I categorically refuse to—"

"_Spock_. I'm talking about the bottle. Let's just finish the bottle." The first officer apparently wasn't completely tipsy, McCoy noted.

Spock burst out laughing. "I see. And I concur."

But he was definitely getting there.


	3. Night

**If You Give a Vulcan a Vodka**

A Drinking Tale

* * *

NIGHT

Nurse Chapel stood outside Dr. McCoy's office and listened as raucous voices filtered through the door. Growing increasingly uneasy, she wondered again if she ought to investigate. After all, she knew from experience that leaving the XO and CMO in the same vicinity for any extended period was like playing with matches in a powder magazine. She tried to force the semi-traumatic memory of Spock's last physical from her mind.

A dull roar emitting from the office brought her back to the present. Hesitantly, she knocked on the door.

No answer. Throwing caution to the wind, she decided to go in.

The door hissed open. "Dr. McCoy?" she called, poking her head in cautiously.

Christine gaped at the sight that met her eyes. Spock had his back to her, reclining in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head and his feet propped on McCoy's desk. The doctor, for his part, was lying on the floor, positively howling with laugher.

Then she eyed a nearly empty liquor bottle sitting on the far counter. It all made sense. "Dr. McCoy!" she snapped.

McCoy looked up at her and struggled to focus his eyes. "Chrissy, baby!" he slurred, giggling.

Spock clumsily twisted around in his chair and knocked several folders to the floor as his feet fell off the desk. "Hello, Nurse," he said brightly, if a little indistinctly.

The doctor found this greeting unaccountably hilarious. Christine stalked over and whapped him on the back of the head, then punched the intercom. "Captain Kirk, you are needed in sickbay." When both men burst into giggles, she punched it again. "_Immediately_."

**.o0o.o0o.o0o. **

The office door hissed open once again. Kirk strode in swiftly, but stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of his two most senior officers. One was half-falling out of his chair, one was rolling around on the floor; both were unmistakably plastered. He glanced questioningly at Nurse Chapel, but she was busy glaring at the pair with a withering look that was clearly meant to sober them on the spot.

It wasn't working.

"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit if it ain't the great Jimbo T. Kirkadoodly, himself!"

"Bones, what is going—"

His words were drowned out by the doctor's laughter. "I haven't called you 'Jimbo' in a good long while, now have I! Haha, 'Jimbo'. Jimbozo. Jimbeezy. Jimbizzle. Jimbiggly-wiggly."

Spock picked it up. "Jimbophyte."

"Hell, yeah! Jimbalaya!"

"Jimborimetry!"

"Jimbrisket!

"Jimbryonic stem-cell research!"

"Jimbooty-call!"

"Spina Jimbifida!"

"NICE!" McCoy roared. "Sexual Jimhibiti—"

"GENTLEMEN!" Kirk bellowed, causing the two men to burst into stifled giggles. He paused to glare them into silence. "And I use the term loosely."

Christine snorted. Kirk rounded on her. "Out!" he spat, pointing at the door.

The nurse scuttled out of the office, looking a little piqued that she would be missing out on what had quickly evolved from a highly frustrating situation into a highly humorous one.

"Now," said Kirk as the door slid closed behind her. He looked from one to the other. "Would either of you mind explaining what is going on here?"

Spock had the decency to look a little sheepish, but McCoy cackled from his position on the floor.

"Aw, now come on, Cap'n! You said your own self you wanted the good man cured. So let a doctor do his job and cure him."

Kirk looked sternly at the doctor. "Bones, this is obviously not what I had in mind. You should have just—"

"Now, you wait just a second there, El Capitan," McCoy interrupted. He clambered unsteadily to his feet and clutched his desk for support. "Don't you be tellin' me how to do my job. That's one thing I can't stand is a body tellin' me how to do my job. Now we got a saying back home—"

"Bones. Spare me."

"Hush now and listen a minute. We got a saying back home to say when folks try to tell us how to do our job. Normally, I wouldn't use it because it's a little crass, I admit, but this is an exceptional situation." Kirk rolled his eyes. Spock scooted to the edge of his seat in breathless anticipation. "It goes like this: _I'm_ fucking this pig. You just hold the ears."

Silence.

Kirk was stone-faced.

Then, Spock burst out laughing. He carried on for a good thirty seconds before stopping abruptly. "Doctor, did you just call me a pig?" he demanded angrily.

"This conversation has gone far enough," Kirk declared.

"But, Captain," Spock protested, "Dr. McCoy just called me a pig." The accused party sniggered.

Kirk stared at him. "He did a lot more than that. This is pathetic."

McCoy spread his arms dramatically. "The hell it is! Jim, surely you realize I just made the discovery of the friggin' century. I mean, who knew all it took was a little booze for this boy to act like a real, live human being? A half-mute, giggly one, granted, but the point remains. You look at him now and you'd never guess he was constructed outta scrap metal and electronic. . . ." He scratched his head. "Stuff."

"Very eloquent, Bones."

"Better constructed than unreconstructed," grumbled Spock moodily, still irked at being called a pig. Kirk raised his eyebrows.

The doctor bristled and rounded on Spock. It took him a minute to focus his eyes. "Now what in the name of the great Sam Hill is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Spock waved the question aside with an elaborate sweep of his hand. "I am merely remarking on your provincial intolerance towards life forms different from yourself."

"_Intolerance?_" McCoy barked. He stumbled over to the counter and grabbed the nearly empty vodka bottle. For a second, Kirk feared that the doctor was about to smash the bottle on Spock's head, but he evidently wanted only to brandish it for dramatic effect. "Do you realize what this bottle is, you green-blooded—"

"You see, this is precisely what I—"

"No, now you listen to me! This bottle is my Most Prized Possession." The capitalization was evident from his careful, though still slightly slurred, enunciation. "You call me intolerant, but we been sittin' here together all night long drinkin' my Most Prized Possession!"

"_Be that as it may_," countered Spock, attempting to emphasize each word by thumping the desk with his hand, but failing to time it properly, "It is unnecessary to goad me at every opportunity. You can be remarkably aggravating, Doctor."

"Are you two even listening to each other?" Kirk asked, rolling his eyes.

Ignoring him, McCoy slammed both fists on the desk. "I been follerin' that sorry green ass of yours from one end of this ship to the other for two _weeks_ outta concern for _your_ _health_, only to be ignored like I'm not the doggone CMO, and _I_ am the one aggravating _you?_"

"Yes," said Spock frankly, folding his arms across his chest.

McCoy saw it coming before it happened, and he knew it would be the last straw when it did. "No, don't you raise that—"

But it was too late. Spock's eyebrow was already traveling toward his hairline.

"AARGH!" McCoy lunged across the desk with a vague idea of ripping the eyebrow off Spock's face, but in his double-vision, he aimed for the wrong Spock. As a result, he tumbled over the desk and landed on the floor to Spock's left with a resounding thud. The first officer began laughing so hard that he fell out of his chair.

Kirk just stood in the corner, shaking his head.

"Unbelievable," he muttered.

But then McCoy threw up, so he called in Nurse Chapel, who determined that he was slightly concussed and would need to be monitored overnight in sickbay. This news pleased the captain enormously. With the doctor taken care of, he turned to his first officer, who was still sitting on the floor, giggling at nothing in particular.

"You hardly ever drink," Kirk observed. "I'm surprised you aren't already praying to the porcelain god."

Spock squinted at the captain with slightly crossed eyes. "Porcelain. . . ?" he repeated slowly, mystified.

"He means you oughta be puking your guts by now," McCoy piped up as he tried to wriggle away from Christine, who was now shining a penlight at his pupils. She groaned in disgust.

"I see." Spock began giggling again. "Interestingly, it appears that this is the only one of Dr. McCoy's potions that does not turn my stomach."

"Of course it doesn't," Kirk grumbled wryly. "Anyway, you will be spending the night in sickbay, too."

Spock struggled to his feet and attempted to stand up straight. "I assure you, Captain," he declared, swaying precariously, "I am perfectly capable of returning to my quarters."

Kirk shook his head. "Look at you. You're a disgrace. The only other person aboard my ship who's going to see you like this is that poor woman right there, whose unfortunate duty it is to take care of sots like you two." He gestured to Christine, who was putting her first aid kit back in order.

McCoy sniggered weakly from his place on the floor. "Yeah, and she needs to see him, too. A nice reality check for that warped, lovesick—ow!"

Christine had poked him in the ribs with a toe of her boot. "Bastard," she muttered.

McCoy just laughed.


	4. Morning

**If You Give a Vulcan a Vodka**

A Drinking Tale

* * *

MORNING

When McCoy opened his eyes, he didn't know where he was or how long he'd been asleep. All he knew that his head was fit to burst.

He lay still for a few minutes and gauged the intensity of his headache. _Yep_, he thought, _definitely a vodka hangover_. Gingerly, he heaved himself into a sitting position and squinted at his surroundings. Apparently, he had fallen asleep in sickbay. _Strange._

Then he saw the Vulcan sitting stiffly on the biobed next to his, gazing stonily at him. Snatches of memories came floating back from the night before. The doctor grinned.

"Well, look who's up, all bright-eyed and bushy tailed," he said, rubbing his temples.

Spock didn't smile. "Doctor, I would like to know what events transpired last night."

McCoy laughed. "I was hoping you could tell me." Slowly, he slid off the biobed and stumbled over to the drawer where he kept aspirin. After he popped a couple, he tossed the bottle to Spock.

The first officer caught it deftly. "What is this for?"

"For your headache."

"I have no headache."

"_What?_" The noise of his voice caused his head to throb. "Are you kidding me?"

"Have I ever 'kidded,' Doctor?"

McCoy gaped. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Before he could speak, Nurse Chapel strolled out of the lab into sickbay and put her hands on her hips.

"How are we feeling this morning, Doctor?" she asked, a smug smile playing on her lips.

Suddenly, McCoy gasped and spun to face her, ignoring the intense pain it caused his poor head. "Christine, get me a blood sample kit, stat!"

She just stared at him.

"Christine, I'm not foolin' around. This man drank half a bottle of vodka last night and he doesn't have a hangover. He must have aldehyde dehydrogenase levels off the charts! I'll be damned if he's sittin' here in sickbay and I don't get at least one test out of him—now, _move!_"

She sprinted back into the lab and began fumbling through cabinets and drawers.

Spock stood up. "Unfortunately, Doctor, I am on duty in 6.3 minutes, and I must report to the bridge."

Christine ran back in, clutching the pouch of supplies, but Spock had already escaped. Looking pityingly at the doctor, she sat beside him on the biobed. "Sorry, doc. Better luck next time."

McCoy shook his head and smiled, because when Spock had strode from the room, he could have sworn he saw the corner of the Vulcan's lips twitch upwards. "I figure I cured him of what he came in for, and I guess with Spock, that's about all you can ask for. Anything more would be 'illogical.'"

Christine nodded slowly, having no idea what he was talking about. Then she stood and poked him in the chest with the pouch. "You know, I might have found this kit in time if you had let me reorganize the cabinets."

He rubbed his chin in mock pensiveness, then shook his head. "Nah, I think I like the cabinets the way they are."

The doctor grinned as she stomped out of the room. Then he rubbed his temples and figured he should go wash up before the captain came looking for him. He would probably get chewed out, but if Kirk didn't like the way he did his job, he'd just have to get over it. As he entered his quarters, the phrase 'fucking a pig' drifted quietly through his mind.

McCoy stopped dead.

Then, he exhaled in relief. _No,_ he comforted himself, _I would never say _that_ one to the captain, no matter how drunk I was._

* * *

**A/N:** The drug I described at the beginning is called Gleevec. It's been out a while now, and it's nothing short of a miracle pill. I'd recommend looking up the TIME article for a nice overview.

Also, I don't think a fan fiction is the appropriate place for a free advertisement for The Best Alcoholic Beverage Ever, so if you want to know the brand of sweet tea vodka that inspired this story, shoot me a message. Or, preferably, include it in your review of this story. Because I know you're going to write one. Right? Right. ;)


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